A cry of protest went up, half laughing, half indignant. Groups of
non-players who had been chatting or strolling round the rooms hurried
to the table to see "what was the row," any sensation, big or small,
being an event to receive thankfully.
"Mais, Mademoiselle!"
The small, predatory hands were arrested: quickly it was explained that
when a player wins he has not won all the money on the table. There are
others also in luck. Mary, abashed, but too excited to be deeply shamed,
apologized in pretty French. Those she would unwittingly have robbed
were disarmed by soft eyes and the appeal of dimples. Even hawklike old
women ceased to glare. "It is her first seance," was the forgiving
whisper. The neat piles of money which she had reduced to ruin and
confusion were sorted out again between croupiers and players, while the
game obligingly waited. If the offender had been old and dowdy, every
one would have grumbled angrily at the bother and delay, but as it was,
men grinned and women were tolerant. After three minutes' halt play was
ready to begin again.
"Better come away now, Mademoiselle. It is I who counsel you," advised
Madame d'Ambre. "It is not well to trust such luck too far. Or else,
play with a few five-franc pieces to amuse yourself. If you win, so much
to the good. If you lose, what matter? You have still the _gros lot_."
"I couldn't do that. I must trust my luck. I am going on. I shall play
on twenty-four again. I wish there were more ways than one for me to
back it, and I would," Mary cried, her cheeks red bonfires of
excitement.
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